


BBC Sherlock: Epiphany

by Wynsom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Gen, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28614987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom/pseuds/Wynsom
Summary: After nearly a year with his eccentric flat-mate, John Watson still has much to learn about Sherlock Holmes and his secrets. What more astonishing revelation can John discover about his enigmatic friend?  Read and find out!  Borrowing the time frame and characterizations from the BBC Sherlock series. Written before the Third and Fourth Seasons, this story HAD BEEN BBC Sherlock canon compliant....
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

****BBC Sherlock: EPIPHANY** **

_"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances:_

_if there is any reaction, both are transformed._ "

**Carl Jung**

_"An acquaintance merely enjoys your company, a fair-weather companion flatters when all is well,_

_a true friend has your best interests at heart and the pluck to tell you what you need to hear."_

**E.A. Bucchianeri,** _Brushstrokes of a Gadfly_

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"Hullo! What's this?"

John's question scarcely drew Sherlock's attention away from the raised newspaper. The detective was thoroughly engrossed, virtually hidden, when his flat-mate returned from a wintry stroll and entered the sitting room.

"It looks like two tickets…. No note?" John mused aloud. The day's post of bills and pamphlets stayed tucked securely under his arm, along with his gloves. He flipped over the envelope he had hastily ripped opened and inspected the fancy handwriting and postage. A puzzled frown appeared. "Huh? …it _IS_ addressed to ME."

"Hmmm?" Seated in his leather chair, Sherlock seemed too preoccupied to offer his companion a sidelong glance. Finally he closed the paper. "Problem?"

"Dunno. Tickets to some international strings competition," John continued reading, "at Wigmore Hall. That's nice. Early January, barely a week away."

Closing his eyes, the detective cocked his head slightly to listen, although his concentration seemed elsewhere. Abruptly he reopened his eyes, pulled out his mobile, and thumbed several searches;. His laptop on the nearby desk was too far away and inconvenient for such an immediate search. Lately, John had kept his own laptop in the upstairs bedroom, making it as inconvenient as possible for the prying detective to use; he could only hope he was succeeding.

Since becoming flat-mates almost a year ago, John had become accustomed to the off-putting mannerisms of the disengaged thinker, the manic genius, the moody artist, the bored investigator. Most times he let the consulting detective have his space. This time, however, curiosity about the unusual mail fueled his determination.

"What do I know about classical music?" John persisted. "I mean, I know _some_ things, but I'm no expert. If it weren't for your playing here in the flat, I'd be unable to tell one opus from another." John pulled his woolen scarf from his neck and unceremoniously dropped the rest of the mail onto the kitchen table amid cleaned test tubes and specimen jars that the scientist-in-residence had set up days ago.

"Well, perhaps it's time you learned." Sherlock put the paper down on his lap and leaned back thoughtfully. "Since you haven't objected to my playing, I presumed you found it agreeable. However, I did warn you…"

Did John detect a wounded tone?

"No, no!" John shook his head as he turned away, shrugged out of his winter jacket, and for the moment, folded it over a kitchen chair. "Your playing is fine. Your musical skill is remarkable, actually. It's quite soothing, sometimes invigorating, especially your original pieces…well, most of the time. If you weren't already committed to detective work, you could probably play professionally…." Surprised by his own run-on candor, John wondered what effect this flattery would have on the stoic genius—his flat-mate, colleague in crime investigation, and new friend—with whom he had been sharing living quarters and amazing adventures for less than a year. In the scheme of things, it was just a short time, yet it had made such a difference in John's life, that a part of him hoped it would be a lifetime.

If John's comments had pleased his companion, there was no way to tell. Sherlock's nose was once again buried in the newspaper.

"This announcement is distressing." The baritone voice rose behind the newsprint shield. "Nancy Meadows and Glen Whitmore are engaged to be married in a small civil ceremony."

John paused to listen for a moment, but refused to allow Sherlock to distract him with an unrelated nuptial announcement. He finally had his own mystery to solve. "Maybe these tickets were meant for you. Here. Look at the envelope. There's no return address. Can you deduce anything?" John stood patiently in front of the consulting detective with the evidence in his extended hand until Sherlock dropped the newspaper.

Sherlock glanced first at his flat-mate's hand, looked up to meet the deep blue eyes of the stalwart doctor, and showed mild reluctance. Resigned, he took the envelope containing the tickets.

With a spectator's excitement, John observed how Sherlock first sniffed the envelope and pulled his magnifying lens to inspect the ink and penmanship along with the rag content of the paper. A few grunts accompanied by odd facial expressions intrigued the doctor while the Great Sherlock Holmes continued the examination. Yet, without warning, the consulting detective dropped the envelope on a side table and picked up the newspaper to resume reading.

"Well?" John stood his ground with his arms linked behind, exasperation edged his voice.

Sherlock rustled the newspaper with his own slight impatience, but relented and offered his persistent flat-mate a report. "Ordinarily, John, I would disclose the origin of the paper, the composition of the ink, the dominant hand and gender, even the height and weight, of the writer, and how this person might be related to the sender, along with the time of post, but unfortunately, I can't."

"Sorry?" John dropped his gaze in disbelief before lifting it with a sudden thought, "Can't or won't?"

"You must realize you destroyed discernible evidence when you so rashly tore it open. Yes. 'Sorry' is my answer."

Stung by Sherlock's criticism and blatant disinterest, John spun about, uncertain if he were being played or summarily dismissed and not liking the demeaning sensation either way. John had seen Sherlock deduce more with far less. Wordlessly he gathered up his scarf and gloves and strode back to the kitchen to retrieve his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

 _Isn't it obvious?_ John replied in his head but refused to turn around or utter a sound. Keeping his eyes averted, his anger simmered as he checked his wallet for his Oyster Card and enough quid for the bus to the Hall. To save the fare, he could even walk it.

"Don't forget this."

"What? Bloody hell, Sherlock?" John stumbled against the tall man calmly standing on the landing deliberately blocking his way. Casting a glaring scowl up toward the downcast face scrtuinizing him, John was surprised to see the piercing stare that Sherlock ordinarily used on clients. Even more puzzling, the detective had already knotted his scarf as if he was about to go out.

"Going somewhere?" John couldn't help asking.

"With you." As he turned to grab his own long coat, Sherlock offered the envelope with the tickets to his partner. "To Wigmore Hall. So we can get to the bottom of this ticket mystery." Somewhat unexpectedly, Sherlock unmasked a gentle smile before buttoning his coat.

Did John detect contrition in those luminous blue-grey eyes? "So," John tried not to growl, "you think you know where I'm going!"

"Of course. You didn't hang up your jacket." Sherlock remarked as he pulled on his gloves. "You're a tidy man, a trained soldier, an army doctor, a captain. You value and follow routine. These unexplained tickets are a disruption. You may have done it subconsciously, but you were planning to head back out. It wasn't difficult to deduce where."

Sighing in surprise, John felt both touched and confounded by the genius who constantly tinkered with emotions as if the soldier-doctor-captain were part of some long-term experiment.

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	2. Chapter 2

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The snap of cold air cooled John's temper further as they walked. Sherlock's seemingly sincere and full cooperation was a complete reversal of the reticent thinker back at Baker Street, which prompted John to suspect the detective was hiding another motive. _Unexpected tickets to a concert were unlikely to stimulate that brilliant mind. Something else is behind this._

John had confirmation within moments. Deciding to walk to Wigmore Hall, John felt Sherlock's staying hand lightly touch his sleeve.

"First, a speedy side trip on the Circle," Sherlock confided in a comradely tone John couldn't refuse.

"Where to?"

"University College Hospital."

"What for? "

"A client. Mr. Glen Whitmore. An ordinary man who is about to be robbed."

The name was familiar. "Who?"

"Glen Whitmore and Nancy Meadows. They're about to get married."

"Ah! The nuptial announcement. Do we know them?"

"We're about to.…"

"Hang on, Sherlock. You're not planning to crash a wedding. Especially if we're not invited."

"Can you crash a wedding and still be invited?"

"You know what I mean."

"I disagree. This is no stranger. Nancy Meadows has left her calling card many times."

Feeling literally 'sidetracked,' John pondered Sherlock's reply in silence as he followed his partner aboard the carriage for the brief trip.

When they arrived at the glass and steel entrance, stunted by the majestic main tower beyond, Sherlock stated rather than asked, "You have your Physician ID, I suspect."

"Of course. Carry it at all times. However, here it affords me certain courtesies, but not privileges…."

"Courtesies…." During an excessive pause, Sherlock staggered slightly, and raised a gloved hand to his temple massaging it slowly. His voice came out reedy but clear. "…courtesies are all we _need_."

"Sherlock?" John's eyes narrowed with the sudden shift in his partner's balance and faltering words. "You okay?"

A quick grin and a curt "fine" were meant to be reassuring. Sherlock broadened his smile and motioned John to lead the way through the doors.

Although John was uncertain about front-desk security, since he was certainly unclear about their business, Sherlock's announcement that they were "carers" for a patient on the Seventh floor—supported by Dr. Watson's ID—gave them access. With creased brow, John shot a look at his tall companion's impassive face when they entered the softly lit lift. He remained silent until the other occupants exited on lower floors.

"So! What are we _really_ doing here?" John queried hoarsely in a stage whisper. "You realize, whatever you're planning to do might jeopardize my status as a practicing physician. I think I _deserve_ to know."

Sherlock's eyes were shut.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

One eye opened in response to the doctor's question. "Mild headache. Nothing more. Anyway, this won't take long."

The inadequate reply was all John received when the doors parted onto the Seventh floor. Bright lights made John wince and put a hand up to shield his eyes. Despite his alleged headache, Sherlock seemed untroubled by the brightness. Exiting the lift, his dark silhouette passed like a shadow over the sun, giving John momentary relief.

By the time the doctor had joined him at the Elderly Care reception desk, Sherlock knew the room he sought and headed straight away. The purpose in the consulting detective's long strides gave John a foreboding feeling. More unsettling, he was still clueless about their mission.

This was a constant complaint the doctor and former army captain had about his "partnership" with the Great Detective. Sherlock preferred to manipulate John's ignorance about details on a case as distracting ploys to fool the criminals; John was bothered that the detective's method and clever maneuvering often succeeded at his own expense. On the other hand, once the guilty were apprehended, the ebullient detective was more than happy to disclose the minutiae that contributed to the method and logic that helped him break the case. It was self-centered and selfish, John realized. Sherlock was not a team player. Until he came aboard, Sherlock had always worked alone.

John Watson would have preferred a more equitable partnership and didn't like being kept in the dark. Yet, who was equal to Sherlock Holmes?

Two steps behind his partner, the doctor followed the detective into the patient's room where an elderly man, in suit and tie, sat upright in his hospital bed, his hand held by a smiling woman, wearing a modest white dress and holding a small bouquet, who was at least thirty years younger.

Immediately removing his Belstaff, Sherlock handed it to John who grunted in mild confusion. _What's this? I'm your valet now?_ _Or do you want me to stay in the background? Well I'm definitely not accepting your gloves if you take them off too._ John spied the wall hooks and swiftly hung up the coat. _Hmmm…thought you said this wouldn't take long?_

Sherlock stepped in rather close to the couple, sniffing. "Glen. Let me congratulate you and your lovely bride, Nancy!" The effervescent and buoyant voice of the late guest intruded with such charming persuasion that none of the assembled guests (all three of them) suspected the breach.

The officiating chaplain, apparently a friend of the Whitmore family, quickly corrected the misunderstanding. "Actually, we are about to begin."

"Oh! I'm premature in my well wishes. Glad I didn't miss it!" Sherlock flirted with beaming face and abiding smile. "I had _so_ wanted to be present."

John found the disingenuous act hard to watch and turned away.

Only the bride showed displeasure. "Glen never mentioned…."

Interrupting, Sherlock gave a horrific scream, his gloved hands shot to his temples, and he crumpled to the floor. Writhing in agony the detective's arms and legs flailed under the hospital bed, disrupting the few bedside chairs from which the chaplain, bride, and guests leaped away in fright, and spilling the contents of several women's purses that had been resting on the floor as his long limbs thrashed uncontrollably.

Perplexed at the suddenness and severity of Sherlock's unexplained attack, John dropped to the floor to rescue his friend. Heart beating madly in fear— had he too quickly discounted symptoms Sherlock manifested earlier?—John grappled with the lanky man to pull him safely free of the cords and mechanics that operated the electronic bed from underneath.

Away from encumbrances that might cause harm, John mustered the strength to turn the detective's shuddering body on his side, and kneeling beside him, peered into his face. Dread clutched John's heart at the blank facial expression of the genius whose eyes had rolled upward. "Sherlock, Sherlock." John called calmly and firmly, despite great trepidation.

As suddenly as it began, the attack ended. Sherlock's body had stopped trembling, his breathing seemed regular, and his pulse, although somewhat elevated by the abrupt activity, was within normal ranges. The faithful doctor remained kneeling beside the detective who seemed to be resting comfortably. Keeping a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder, John leaned in close to Sherlock's ear and gently spoke in soothing tones. "Okay now, Sherlock? Relax. Stay down. I'm going to call for assistance..."

"No! John!" Grabbing hold of John's wrists with steely strength, Sherlock's firm voice and fully alert gaze arrested John's attempts to leave his side. "Not necessary. I'm better. Completely. Help me up. No _need_ to call for help."

Relieved, baffled, and acutely aware things were not what they seemed, John shrewdly studied the alabaster complexion and verified Sherlock was fully conscious.

Once assisted to his feet, the consulting detective straightened his disheveled jacket and trousers.

"Sherlock, take a seat," John ordered sternly, the dawning suspicion getting in the way of his bedside manner. To his unutterable astonishment, Sherlock obeyed.

"Yes. Yes. Here is fine. Do continue with your plans." Sherlock waved congenially to the guests, bride, and chaplain clustered in the doorway. Only the groom remained in his bed, looking perplexed.

"Erm hem. We are gathered here today…." The chaplain began after everyone had taken their places for the ceremony.

"Sorry," Sherlock rose brusquely from his chair. "I know I've been a disruption already, but… well, may I say a few words before we begin?"

Obviously not fatigued at all by either his seizure or headache, Sherlock's invigorated rally affirmed John's nagging suspicions all along. _You, git! You faked that seizure as a diversion! If that's what you did… well, it was a damn good act! Pretending earlier to have a headache and halting speech gave me no reason to doubt you when you collapsed. Damn you! As usual, I am an unwitting part of your diversion._

The ever-polite chaplain blinked in surprise, then nodded, "Please, sir, keep it brief."

The bride shot a stern look at the chaplain. She had shaken her head 'no' just a little too late.

"At your age, Glen," Sherlock's clear voice and rapid chatter controlled the small room, "you've been in better health than expected. At least you were, until last week. Up to now, you'd been enjoying your retirement formulating plans with your new love, Nancy, who coincidentally, had signed on as your housekeeper several months ago. _Such is love!_ It can be found in the most unexpected places. And, just in time, it seems, as your health has taken a turn for the worse—so suddenly. Now, here she is, standing by your side, your helpmate, not turned away by your failing health; instead this much younger woman offered to be your fiancée—and today, she's about to become your bride."

"This is what Glen wants!" Nancy remarked firmly, "It will make him happy. It will make _us_ happy!" She patted Glen's shoulder affectionately.

"Perhaps the facts might change that perception," Sherlock stated coolly.

"He signed the necessary documents days ago!" Nancy found reason to smile. "It's all legal. You can't _change_ anything."

"Where are your grown children, Glen? Your grandchildren?"

"They showed their selfishness," Glen rasped in a flush of anger. "All I was to them was an old man. Only their inheritance mattered."

"Indeed. And what matters to Nancy Meadows?"

"Nancy loves me!" the old man insisted, anger and tears mixing in his watery eyes. "Even so, I don't have much. I am not a very wealthy man. "

"You don't have to be wealthy. You just have to be one of many."

Sherlock went over and pressed the patient's room buzzer to alert the front desk. "It is unfortunate that she expects to be your widow sooner than you might wish."

Sorrow and shock clouded the faces of the groom, chaplain, and guests. Over the bride's features brewed a menacing storm.

"Nancy Meadows, nee Nannette Philips, aka, Nancy Cunningham, Nancy Winters, Nancy Summers, (Aha. See a pattern of seasons here) or Nancy _fill-in-the-blank_ has been the _constant_ widow in a string of end-of-life marriages; posing as a loving private aid, cook, housekeeper, who steals from the rightful heirs. It's not criminal that she married her husbands and changed their wills before they died, but poisoning them to ensure they do is a criminal offence."

"What nerve! To accuse me…" Nancy hissed, appearing poised to pounce. "I love Glen!"

John protectively stepped between the angry bride and accusing detective, ready to deflect any assault.

Biting her lower lip, Nancy backed off as her eyes darted from the doctor, to the detective, to the doorway and freedom, which Sherlock strategically blocked as he spoke.

"For a long time you evaded suspicion because it always seemed consensual, that is, until the last family brought charges against you." Sherlock crossed his arms in contemplation. "Fascinating reading for months, really; although it was buried in the papers and only broadcast on late night news. Hardly a front-page story. The pattern was established, but without evidence, the charges couldn't stick." Sherlock turned to the unhappy groom. "Sorry, Glen. This is why Nancy didn't want your engagement sent to the press. It was indeed a mistake to run the announcement for today's nuptials. It allowed us to obtain the evidence."

Responding to the buzzer, a nurse appeared accompanied by two constables and DI Greg Lestrade.

John's jaw dropped.

"Oh, good! Lestrade! You got my text."

"Yeah," Lestrade seemed annoyed. "About _forty_ minutes ago."

"You may as well arrest this woman, Nancy Meadows, formerly Nancy of various-last-names, the so-called 'Constant Widow' on the charges of attempted murder." Revealing a lipstick case that had been concealed in his gloved fist, Sherlock assured him. "No. It's not a cosmetic. Evidence bag, please?"

Dropping it into the clear plastic bag, Sherlock continued. "Here is evidence, which I procured from the bride's purse when the contents spilled on the floor— you will find traces of it in her purse, as well as in the garage of the Whitmore home. Once you send it to the lab with a few hair samples from Mr. Whitmore, you will see it matches the toxic substance Nancy Meadows has been slowly feeding her fiancé."

Without delay, the accused woman was hauled away in cuffs. Before leaving, Lestrade exchanged a commiserating grimace with John and ducked out as quickly as possible. Despite wanting to follow on his heels, John remained. He needed to see this to its unhappy conclusion.

Perhaps truly oblivious to the enormous distress he had just caused, Sherlock shared one final thought, "You shall at least recover your _health_ , if not your heart, Glen Whitmore, once the poison clears your system. I am truly sorry. Thank you, and have an otherwise pleasant day."

Grabbing his coat off the hook, Sherlock exited, calling behind him, "Come, John!"

John could not instantly obey. A bomb had exploded and the injured needed rescue. He surveyed the damage in the room, not just in the disarrayed chairs and belongings, but in the grief-stricken face of the old man and the horrified looks of the guests.

"I…I am SO sorry," John addressed them humbly. "You may not realize this immediately, Mr. Whitmore, but your life and the lives of your family have just been saved from further heartache and misery by someone who did his best to prevent a crime. I hope you will come to understand how valuable this gesture was over time. Again, my profound apologies." He went over and shook the stunned man's hand, patted his shoulder, and left with head bowed.

When John caught Sherlock up in the lift, he was aggravated with the detective. Prancing like a boxer in the ring, John hunched his shoulders, but instead of throwing a punch, he pointed toward the door as the lift descended. "What was _that_?"

"Serial crime solved, another prevented. Lestrade should be happy." Sherlock, widely grinning in arrogant satisfaction, rubbed his gloves gleefully.

"What about Glen Whitmore?" John's voice was flat, though his anger remained coiled like a spring.

"What about him?" Sherlock shot a look at his flat-mate and his smile faded.

"Do you think he's happy?" John was hopping mad.

"Well, he will be…eventually." Sherlock's façade of arrogance showed signs of crumbling.

"No!" John bristled, bringing his face close to Sherlock's with such force, the taller man leant back instinctively. "No! He will not be happy! You don't understand. It's collateral damage on an emotional level. Grandstanding like that is offensive and not as effective as you want it to be. You were perfectly justified to want to apprehend a criminal, but there was undoubtedly a gentler way to accomplish that. You're a clever man. Couldn't you have got the woman out of the room before you broke the heart of her victim? There was no need to be a showoff about it. How can you be so brilliant and such an idiot at the same time?"

Sherlock appeared surprised by John's blustering frustration. He bowed his head and kept silent as John wordlessly paced back and forth in the lift until the doors slid open to the main floor. John was out like a shot, Sherlock followed slowly behind.

Outside, John was a whirl of emotions and kept his eyes averted until his anger could subside. Sherlock hovered nearby, observing his patient flat-mate's outburst with keen interest.

Finally, John threw a glance toward the puzzled detective, his voice still tight. "Are you _really_ a sociopath? Does anything I've said make sense to you? Do you really not feel sentiments or understand how human nature works?"

Sherlock nodded. "I understand 'the end doesn't always justify the means.'" He offered John a conciliatory grin. "I _am_ an idiot when it comes to human nature. When the fervor of the elusive solution collides with the exhilaration of discovery, my mind races like an engine—this is what it has been built for, this is what I crave—and I sweep aside anything and everything in its path to reach my destination."

"No excuses! You are better than that." John said more evenly. "You've shown me that logic can control our emotions, can keep us from jumping to the wrong conclusions before all the facts are gathered and distilled through scientific proof. However, addictions of all kinds—including to logic at the expense of compassion—take away those controls that help us be better human beings and better to each other. Sherlock," John shook his head in disappointment, "you'll need to find the balance that I sincerely believe you're capable of … or…" He looked down at his feet, afraid he had said too much.

"Or?" There was genuine worry in Sherlock's voice.

"You're a great man," John found himself paraphrasing Greg Lestrade, "but, I need you to become a good one."

"Duly noted."

On the walk to the Tube station, Sherlock broke their long silence. "Perhaps I am not such the idiot you think," Sherlock slid his eyes toward John. "If we are judged by the company we keep, there is hope. My flat-mate is a good man with outstanding self-control. From him I can learn great things."

John looked in amazement at the genius who was forever baffling him with some new phase of astuteness and smiled.

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	3. Chapter 3

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The ticket agent in the Wigmore Hall office could not explain _why_ Dr. John H. Watson received tickets, but he was able to _identify_ them.

"Comp tickets?" John turned to look at Sherlock, who was standing silently behind him, collar up, head down, huddling into the warmth of the Belstaff. Only the detective's intense eyes were raised, returning the doctor's glance with a piercing stare that for the second time that day made him wonder. John turned back to the polite man who might be of better use. "Who…would give me complimentary tickets?"

"Perhaps, one of the performers. A staff member, a crew member?" Maintaining a calm façade, the man shrugged. "This is a competition of aspiring musicians and will be an eclectic mix of classical and original pieces…."

Half listening, John nodded politely, "Can you link the comp numbers with the performer, staff, or crew?"

The ticket agent hesitated. "I'm not sure….I mean, not sure whether that is allowed. You didn't receive an explanation when they arrived?"

"No note," John paused and shifted from foot to foot. Leaning closer into the glass window that separated them, he averted his gaze, and whispered. "You see, Gary," (John had read the name tag), "that's the problem. This is a delicate situation. I need to ensure I thank the proper _people_ …the ones I suspect are responsible for the _gift_ or I could suffer some unpleasant consequences… _you_ know." John brought his eyes back to the Gary's face and gave him an encouraging smile.

Whether Gary was convinced by John's story or thought he was a nuisance, it was obvious that John was a determined customer. Gary complied. "Don't tell anyone where you got this information, because I'm not sure if this isn't irregular." Cross checking his files with the issued tickets didn't take long. "Okay. It's a performer. William Scott…"

Behind him, John heard Sherlock snort, cough, and clear his throat. "Okay, John!" He clapped his gloved hands with finality. "There's your answer."

"William Scott?" John was bewildered.

"Good day, sir." Gary had turned away; his business finished.

"Erm…Thank you!" John muttered and followed Sherlock out to the pavement.

"I'm surprised at you, John," Sherlock said sternly. "Actually, shocked."

"What?" John widened his eyes with concern.

"You _feigned_ a story to obtain information. Essentially you _lied."_ A throaty chuckle erupted from the detective.

"Hmmm... _well_ ," John asserted, "Maybe a _white_ lie. It was obvious. Nobody was fooled."

"You _do_ know my methods! And you employed them. _Quite_ effectively, I might add." More outright laughter punctuated his last remark.

"Well, yes." John grinned ear-to-ear and gave his snickering flat-mate a slight shove. "However, I actually _implied_ a truth that was possible. I truly don't know if there will be consequences, since I still haven't a clue who this William Scott is?"

"A patient of yours? A fellow soldier you saved, perhaps?" Sherlock suggested as they walked. "An old friend?"

John shook his head. "Don't recall…"

"All the more reason you should go," Sherlock advised, "to acquaint yourself with the gift-er."

"Hmmm." John nodded.

"Two tickets, you say?"

"Yes. Why don't _you_ join me?" John couldn't keep the pleading out of his voice.

Smiling from his eyes, Sherlock shook his head. "True, my musical tastes encompass all styles: opera, concert music, and obscure compositions, but no, John." The detective seemed unmoved. "No. Not to hear _aspiring_ musicians— _amateurs_ —performing in a competition. I might become too loud a critic and not agree with the judges. Bad behavior and all. _Uncontrolled._ It would be safer and far more pleasant an evening for you if I were not there lambasting your 'friend's' performance. Why not invite Sarah? There won't be Chinese Acrobats this time."

John laughed heartily, realizing that since working with the Great Sherlock Holmes, such laughter had become more frequent. "You've got it all figured out, I see."

"It's what I do, John," Sherlock tried to recompose himself and looked ahead as they walked, yet a hint of a grin lingered in his cheeks.

John studied his friend's profile but said no more. Although Sherlock's argument was sound and plausible, deep down John couldn't help feeling there was still something odd about it.

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	4. Chapter 4

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Exhibiting gentlemanly manners, John escorted Sarah to their seats in Wigmore Hall for the musical competition that promised to be both highbrow and interesting, and perhaps to solve a puzzle.

With fashion feedback from Sherlock, whose taste John actually trusted, the doctor had dressed in his civilian best suit and tie, whilst Sarah (once her coat was checked) apparently needed no such guidance to appear tastefully attired in a little black dress, classy pumps, and a beaded shawl that draped across one shoulder. Sizing each other up with a wink and smile, they both felt a little out of their element as they demurely read through the program. John silently thanked Sherlock for pointers about the evening, which he used in conversation with Sarah before the musicians took the stage.

"Preliminary rounds, a tough pre-competition phase, were held in early December before a jury," John spoke softly as Sarah listened, her head bowed and tilted toward John. With her hair swept stylishly back, a sparkle of earring kept catching John's eye. " _That_ jury determined which competitors would qualify for tonight's evening recital. Six finalists were notified a little more than a week ago."

"So that explains the short notice; not that I was your last choice." Sarah half jested with an enlightened nod. "This is very elegant. I'm glad to be here. Rearranging my schedule took some effort, but it's all worth it," she whispered back. "Now, I'll keep my fingers crossed that my one possible emergency call can hold off altogether."

"Have to say I appreciate you being here. It's obvious I'm a fish out of water. Besides, your lovely company," John gave her a shy smile, "will make this evening more meaningful to me." He knew better than to tell her Sherlock had been the first person he asked.

She tugged on her earring thoughtfully. "So you still don't know who sent you these tickets and why?"

"I only know I'm in the right place because his name is listed in the program."

Sarah gave him a less-than-shy-glance which brightened her smile. "Okay, Mr. Music Professor, tell me more about this…." She read the program title "…this _January 6_ _th_ _International Strings Finalist Competition_ , we are attending." Her lighthearted giggle was soft and intimate.

Blushing to his ears, John was surprised by his own bashfulness. With a responsive smile he played along. "As you wish, my lady. Tonight is the final round. Directly after the concert, they will announce the results, and three top performers will be awarded prizes."

Sarah may not have been listening closely because her smile was warmer, her eyes brighter, and her fingers somehow became entwined through John's. The last thing he heard was her seductive giggle when suddenly excited applause erupted and the auditorium lights dimmed.

The brief confusion in John's mind cleared as the judges took center stage to introduce the event.

Each of the six competing finalist was required to play two pieces: a classical work from the preassigned list and an original piece. Checking the program, John saw that William Scott, his mystery man, would be the fifth to perform.

John sat back with Sarah, their hands clasped, to listen and learn. During the performances, he studied the musicians' fingering and bowing, or closed his eyes to catch cadences and phrasing that demonstrated agility and command. His understanding had certainly improved within the past week, when Sherlock began explaining musical theory to John in a crash-course on music appreciation.

_"_ _You have a natural ear for music, John. You just don't understand what you're hearing."_

_"_ _Picked up the flute for a year or two in primary school," John conceded, "but there wasn't an opportunity to go farther; it just wasn't practical."_

_"_ _Listen again to this." Raising the bow, Sherlock placed the violin between his chin and shoulder and demonstrated another dynamic phrasing of an original melody._

_"_ _Now that…." John exhaled, "was splendid. That much I know, but why or how has always eluded me, except music when it is good, like what you just played, affects me emotionally….."_

During the evening's competition, none of the performers, to John's ear, seemed at all amateurish. Each professionally rendered a masterful classical piece, the nuances of their technique and artistry escaped him, but he felt with the background lessons Sherlock had provided, he had a greater appreciation for the entire event.

An occasional glance toward Sarah, or a tightening of their held hands, told him she was enjoying the performances as well.

Once the fourth competitor began her classical piece, John thoughts strayed to his flat-mate at home, who despite his protests, would have certainly enjoyed this. As far as John was concerned, Sherlock was just as good as any of the performers he heard so far, possibly even better.

When the fourth competitor withdrew from the stage amid loud applause, John sat up in great anticipation.

Unexpectedly, a solitary man, one of the judges, walked formally to center stage holding a microphone to make an announcement. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we ask your indulgence regarding a slight scheduling change. Penelope Hathaway will precede William Scott in the program. Thank you."

John sat back with disappointment and raised a questioning eyebrow toward Sarah. Unfortunately, Sarah was checking her paging device, her face showing great regret. _Gotta go. My emergency! You stay,_ she mouthed, blew him a kiss, and discretely evacuated her seat and the hall before Penelope Hathaway had settled into her recital.

John was of a half mind to follow Sarah, but for the lure of William Scott's identity. Finding it hard to sit still, John made up for his impatience by applauding vigorously when Ms. Hathaway finally departed the stage.

Thoughts of Sarah haunted John. He began to feel the heel for not offering to see her off by taxi. Did the identity of a stranger really eclipse the importance of his date's well-being? Tempted to give her a call, John had half risen from his seat, planning to head to the lobby when the last musician entered the stage.

Immediately John sat down. _Oh My God!_

William Scott was no stranger! Dressed in tails, polished shoes, wild raven locks tamed appropriately with just enough hair product, the tall lean man gave the audience a gentle smile and courtly bow as he gracefully positioned his Stradivarius.

As each of his predecessors had done, William Scott announced the classical piece he was about to play. " _Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor for solo violin."_

John was riveted. The solitary man who stood playing assorted music in their sitting room had been transformed within the context of the music hall. John had always known Sherlock had talent, but the degree to which his friend's genius was brilliantly showcased in the spotlight was breathtaking. Focusing as Sherlock had trained him, John watched how William Scott executed the familiar piece in Baroque style, establishing from the beginning a firm tempo with clear and pointed bow strokes. Despite the fast strokes, William Scott commanded great control with sound and awareness. His choice of the haunting, melancholy sonata suited the man who played it—in its entirety on stage—with loving attention.

Exhilarated, the doctor knew and felt every note. How could he not? Not only had Sherlock been practicing it every day for months—within earshot—but the clever man more recently used it to highlight aspects during John's music theory lessons.

Yet, when the competitor vigorously ended the Bach _Sonata,_ not one person clapped. Propriety dictated the audience members hold their applause until the competitor played his final piece. With tremendous restraint, John acquiesced, holding in great pride for his friend's showmanship and mastery.

Once again the musician spoke to a hushed audience. "The title of my original work," William Scott announced with elegant formality. "is _Loyalty_. I dedicate it to those who serve Queen and Country, both the brave men and women in the current theatres of war as well as back home. Our veterans have become anonymous, sometimes forgotten, yet they continue to serve quietly in all areas of society and across all classes: aristocrats and commoners alike. They are among our librarians, technicians, teachers, doctors, grocers, laborers. They are the fathers, sons, and brothers, mothers, daughters, and sisters who have made great sacrifice… you in this audience know who you are. And I thank you."

In perfect form and sound, William Scott played the entire original composition John had only heard as isolated melodies in their sitting room. Even then, the former army doctor had felt each was spellbinding, charged with emotional musicality, never realizing they belonged to a more cohesive whole. Closing his eyes, John heard the story of their developing friendship in fluid sound. His pulse quickened, his mind filled with flowing images. Drastic contrast in phrasing and tempo became vivid memories of their exciting cases. Fast strokes conveyed images of chase and danger, adventures and thrills; slower somber melodies touched upon their original loneliness and frustration, followed by the light bowing indicating satisfaction, success, and gratitude for companionship. Whether these were the actual sentiments intended by his composer friend, it affected John well beyond words. For John, music would always be a language he could not read with any proficiency, yet he knew how it made him feel. His eyes moistened with appreciation and gratitude overwhelmed him.

At last, applause thundered through the hall. The audience rose in unison with a roar of approval. Standing, John shouted "Bravo! Bravo!" until he was hoarse.

Bowing with grace and humility, William Scott left the stage.

88**88


	5. Chapter 5

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88**88

" _That_ was _amazing_!" John accompanied Sherlock from Wigmore Hall, unable to conceal deep admiration from his voice and eyes.

Both men were prepared with coats, gloves, and scarves for a longer walk in the chilly winter night if they so chose, although somewhere along the way, John knew they would likely hail a taxicab. Sherlock was carrying close by his side his cherished Stradivarius in its protective case; taxi would be the safest transport to Baker Street with such an heirloom. For the moment, however, they walked a leisurely pace.

"So. You declined the award…. Second Place." The doctor's awe succumbed to bruised pride. "It should have been first, in my very humble opinion."

"My original composition was not as technically complicated as the winner's. Lost a half point for that." With his chin sunk upon his chest, Sherlock spoke softly, reliving the performance within his vivid memory. "Anyway!" He suddenly waved his free hand to bring himself back to the present. "It would require more concert performances and building notoriety. I'm _not_ aspiring. The young musicians who are building their repertoires would better benefit from these honors. I just wanted to see how I compared."

"Apparently, not so bad." John chuckled. "Why did you perform last? You were originally fifth."

"The truth? To heighten the excitement," Sherlock stated plainly. "I thought it would be more dramatic for us both if I appeared last...it wasn't hard to 'have' a broken string to get my position bumped to sixth."

"Playing with the emotions of anticipation," John conceded, "certainly worked. However, I'm not so sure if your ploy didn't cost you points." The doctor paused, thinking about other ramifications. "Sherlock, would _William Scott_ be allowed to compete again? The judges did not take kindly to his declining their musical honors."

Sherlock stopped, raised an eyebrow, and nodded toward his companion. A slight frown flickered as if the thought hadn't occurred. "Perhaps not. Doesn't matter. There will be no _again_." He shrugged and resumed walking.

"So you haven't done this before?"

The detective shook his head.

"Why _this_ competition, then?"

"It's a birthday gift."

"I don't understand." It was John's turn to stop in his tracks. "Whose birthday? I _know_ you know it's not my birthday."

"I know." Sherlock smiled ruefully. "It's mine."

"Oh!" John inhaled with embarrassment. "Oh! I didn't know…never thought. So sorry. I _AM_ an idiot! Happy Birthday, Sherlock!" He extended his hand.

Sherlock responded with an amused grin. Shaking hands, he nodded his thanks. "Usually, it is not an occasion I mark with any ceremony or ritual." The detective grunted before continuing their walk. "This year was different. I had someone I could share it with. What better way to celebrate?"

Warmed by the implication, John rewarded his friend with a genuine smile. "Not as clever as you, though. Only when I saw you on stage, did I realize you sent me the tickets," John admitted. "It's clear as day now. So my instincts were right. You were putting me on. You knew very well who sent me the tickets. It didn't require any kind of deduction either." John's brow furrowed, "'destroyed discernable evidence.' Bollocks!"

"White lie." A smile flickered.

"You played me…."

"Misled you." A grin appeared.

"Okay, but it was unpleasant. I nearly…."

"Nearly what?"

"I have a temper I need to control. Might've clocked you."

"You _are_ in control, John. That is a fact."

John gave Sherlock a studied look. _What was Sherlock implying? In control of what?_ John wondered. Reflecting as they walked in companionable silence, John reassembled fragments of their conversation about the person who sent the complimentary tickets. Sherlock had suggested, "a patient, a fellow soldier he saved, a friend." In a way, as John learned more about the puzzling man—his friend Sherlock Holmes—these pieces were beginning to fit and form a clarifying perspective: perhaps an invalidated army doctor could teach the Great Detective how to find control to help him become a _good_ man. It was a mission worth pursuing.

Leaving this epiphany unspoken, John considered another curiosity. "So, Sherlock, why the pseudonym? William Scott?"

"I can't very well perform as Sherlock Holmes. It would ruin my reputation."

88**88

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock Holmes fans well know two things: First, in some adaptations, not the original canon, William Sherlock Scott Holmes is his full name. Second, January 6th has been declared Sherlock's birthday: it is also the Feast of the Epiphany, often called Little Christmas, when the Three Wise Men acknowledged the miraculous revelation of the Christ Child.


End file.
